


Strange Bedfellows

by DreamerInSilico



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: ... i think it still makes sense?, F/F, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but it would probably be different were i to re-write, i wrote this before DAI happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 08:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16889307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamerInSilico/pseuds/DreamerInSilico
Summary: Two very different women meet, not entirely by chance.  They both want answers.





	Strange Bedfellows

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a loooong time ago, well before Inquisition happened. But here I am trying to archive my old Tumblr-only stuff, and this seems relevant enough to preserve.

She was a shadow against the moon, the barest rustle of wind over onyx feathers or soft loam under padded feet.  She moved swift and silently as a ghost through the forest, yet somehow the Seeker still trailed her. 

The first day, she had been amused.  She had toyed with templars for much of her life, and this woman was not so different.  Different armor, more skill, perhaps – but the same hand on the leash.  Morrigan had been certain she would be able to lose her easily and be on her way. 

The second, she had been annoyed.  It had quickly become clear that her pursuer was adept at woodscraft, though how an Orlesian Chantry agent had acquired such a rustic ability, Morrigan did not care to guess.  She had foregone her occasional stops to rest in favor of her wolf form’s endurance, loping along at a distance-devouring pace, but the Seeker’s horse was well-bred and hardy, and the witch could not shake her. 

By the afternoon of the third day, annoyance had given way to ruthless calculation.  She might take to the skies again, but her first attempt to disappear that way had failed, and a lack of food and sleep meant that a second effort would be no more successful.  She might try to buy herself some time to snatch a rest and prepare an ambush – if she could catch the woman off-guard, she might overpower her… but that option did not, if she was realistic, have odds she cared for.  The thought nagged at her, that if a Seeker would go to this much trouble to capture one apostate, she would surely have brought templar cronies as backup – Chantry soldiers seldom gambled, and a fight would present at least as much risk to the Seeker as to Morrigan herself.  That seemed to suggest there might be another reason she was being tailed so doggedly, and if she could determine what that was…

Morrigan did not like it, but she was running short of options.  Besides, if the alternative was fighting, she would certainly be prepared for that, as well. 

Being direct should never preclude thoroughness. 

…

“Why do you follow me?”  Her voice was carefully schooled to its particular note of disdainful hauteur that had served her well with many who had thought to intimidate her in the past, and small sparks played almost idly about her fingers, a distraction in case such a thing was needed.  “I suggest you speak quickly.” 

The Seeker pulled her horse up short, the creature filling the small clearing with its stamping and snorting.  The woman was tall and solidly-built without the usual templar bulk, with sweat-plastered, short black hair and a stormy scowl to fit to rival a qunari warrior’s, which she fixed on Morrigan’s face in a deliberate pause before she replied, “You, apostate, are not exactly in a position to make demands.” 

Smirking, Morrigan let a particularly bright spark leap between thumb and forefinger before rubbing them together as if to snuff it out.  “Neither are you.” 

The other woman did not deign to reply to that, instead dismounting neatly.  Morrigan tensed, prepared to launch a blast of electricity at the first sign of aggression, but her antagonist remained beside her horse for the present.  “I am Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker for the Divine.” 

“I know  _what_ you are, and your name has no meaning for me.  But ‘tis a great deal of trouble you’ve gone to, to pursue me, and without even a pack of your templar hounds to bring me down; I would know your purpose.”  The witch returned a baleful stare of her own, unblinking.  More than one warrior had been rattled by her gaze in the past, but if it affected Cassandra, she did not show it. 

“ _Your_ name has a great deal of meaning to more people than you may realize, Morrigan.”  She spoke harshly, the name formed only begrudgingly on lips no doubt far more accustomed to ‘apostate’ and ‘maleficar,’ and perhaps ‘mage’ if she was being especially polite.  “I have long asked questions about the extraordinary end to the Blight in Ferelden.  Eventually, all the answers began to point to you.” 

Well, whatever Morrigan might have expected from this encounter, that had not been it.  This could be… complicated.  “I was there; that much is true and no doubt could have been learned from any minstrel or even one of your bards,” she pointed out neutrally. 

To her surprise, Cassandra smiled.  It was a dark, hardened expression that spoke of secrets unearthed, and Morrigan did not like it in the slightest.  (That wasn’t  _strictly_ true, perhaps, but in the present context, it held.  Whatever… else… she might be, the bitch was dangerous.)  “No doubt,” the Seeker agreed.  “But not  _any_  bard would know that you disappeared immediately after the battle, or that the Hero later sought you out and upon her return, would say nothing of what she had learned on the journey –” 

“Are you here to bore me to death with my own history, then?  Come to the point, if you please,” Morrigan interrupted with a flippancy she did not feel. 

“The  _point_  – “ Cassandra took a menacing step forward and Morrigan set her fingertips crackling angrily.  “ – is that the world has gone mad, and you had a hand in it, and I have further cause to believe that you might have a much bigger one in the future – if you are allowed to do so.” 

“Threats are not far different than demands, Seeker,” the mage said softly, maintaining her balled lightning. 

The other woman continued her slow advance, answering in an almost mocking echo of Morrigan’s tone.  Though quiet, each of her words seemed as charged as the air between the witch’s fingers.  “That wasn’t one, as much as I might like it to be.”  As she neared, Morrigan dropped her left hand carefully toward the dagger she wore hidden in a flap of her skirt – it was not much compared to the Chantry woman’s swords, but few would even consider the possibility of a mage resorting to mundane (well,  _mostly_ mundane, in this case) weapons in close quarters. 

“Then what was it?” 

There was that smile again… it made Morrigan angry in some indefinable, aimless way, and she glared back at the woman.  “Call it a…  _request_ … for information.”

The witch was not impressed.  “And what cause have I to grant such a ‘request’ for a Chantry zealot?” 

Cassandra hissed through her teeth, stopping only an arm’s length from Morrigan.  She smelled of horseflesh and leather and… juniper?  And the fact that Morrigan’s mind was recording such details only angered her more, but the woman’s reply, now barely a whisper, quickly commanded her full attention. 

“I do not know  _why_ , but a few enterprising Tevinter magisters are hunting the daughter you think no one knows about.”

 

* * *

 

Cassandra watched the apostate’s eyes close slowly and the lightning gutter and die between her fingers.  Most would probably have considered this a very mild reaction to the news, but Cassandra knew mages better – the magic had been maintained as a show of power and control; that it had been dropped so suddenly was a sign the other woman was badly shaken. 

Her voice didn’t carry the anxiety, though, to her credit.  The words were soft and deadly when she spoke.  “Who betrayed me?” 

Interesting that she thought herself so stealthy as to have required a betrayal.  “No one, to my knowledge.  Everyone has spies, apostate – and some of them are even competent.” 

“What else do you know?” the witch asked, eyes opening and fixing Cassandra with a sharp, yellow glare. 

Cassandra crossed gauntleted arms and stared the other woman down.  “I’m going to need at least some assurance of cooperation – “

Morrigan waved a hand angrily, interrupting.  “While ‘tis most disturbing that you know of her at all, I require more evidence that what you have just told me  _might_  be true.  Where is she now?” 

_This one’s shaping up to be worse than that damned dwarf,_ the Seeker reflected with an inward sigh.  “She was last seen in the company and care of a particularly young Dalish leader on the northern edge of the Brecilian.  An acquaintance of yours from the Blight, I gather.” 

The other woman seemed to deflate fractionally, and Cassandra allowed herself a small smile.  She had been reasonably sure her intelligence was good – especially after Sister Nightingale had been able to name the elf in question simply from a description – but it was always a pleasure to have such things confirmed. 

“I like this not one bit,” Morrigan muttered, “but… tell me.  What information are you looking for, and how much are you prepared to do to earn it?”  

 

* * *

 

She was traveling with a Seeker.

She was  _traveling_  with a  _Seeker_. 

Wherever she was, whatever form she wore, if Flemeth knew of this, she might just laugh herself to death – if true death was even possible for her.  Come to think of it, her old friend the Warden Commander would be laughing, too…

Morrigan might have found the situation amusing herself, had she not been currently living the reality of it… and had so many of her long-cultivated plans not hung in the balance.  She had thought to keep her daughter safe and have her learn history and lore that Morrigan herself could not teach the girl by sending her to travel with Lanaya’s clan, but despite even the legendary Dalish penchant for insularism, Emer had been discovered.  The nosy Seeker had known that Emer was conceived at the end of the Blight, and  _somehow_  also knew of the Grey Wardens’ nasty little secret about how the Archdemon was destroyed, though fortunately not the crucial detail regarding the dragon’s soul.  Morrigan had breathed a fraction more easily after she had ascertained the limits of the other woman’s knowledge; she had been able to say merely that the Archdemon’s death had released a great deal of power – indeed, everyone in or near Denerim that night had seen it! – and that she had been able to harness that power to bequeath some of it to her child rather than allowing it to kill the Warden who struck the killing blow.  She was resentful of having to explain even that much of the truth, but it was strange and nefarious-sounding enough to satisfy Cassandra’s need for answers, while avoiding the fact that Emer literally bore Urthemiel’s soul. 

There really wasn’t any way to explain  _that_  particular bit to a Chantry agent without sparking another damned Exalted March. 

And so here they were… traveling companions.   _Ludicrous._ Cassandra’s interest was ostensibly only in keeping a valuable pawn out of the hands of the Black Divine.  Morrigan did not believe that for a moment, but the infuriating woman had information she needed – and truth be told, her sword arm could prove almost as useful – and the witch contented herself with the knowledge that she would be in a position to intercept any communications the Seeker might attempt while on the road.  She had no doubts that if all this ended in open conflict, she and her allies would prevail, provided Cassandra was unable to summon reinforcements. 

“You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?”  The Seeker’s voice snapped Morrigan abruptly out of her stormy reverie. 

“ ‘Tis surprising to you?  I am accustomed to – and  _enjoy_  being alone,” Morrigan returned acidly. 

Cassandra snorted a harsh laugh.  “Oh yes.  To hear my sister-in-arms speak of it, during the Blight you scarcely drew a breath that you didn’t use on childish bickering with your Templar companion.”  She paused, and added as if in afterthought, “ I do suppose I should be flattered that you do not natter at me so.” 

Morrigan said nothing, instead very quietly wishing several thousand different creatively gruesome deaths on  _dear_  Leliana.  

 

* * *

 

A week of travelling through Ferelden’s prodigious wilderness had established a routine and something resembling a truce between mage and Seeker, and though Cassandra would almost certainly never tell the other woman so, she was finding her a surprisingly pleasant traveling companion – when she wasn’t talking.  Morrigan amply lived up to her reputation of having a tongue like a viper when provoked, and provoking her was not a difficult thing to do. 

Granted, Cassandra had done it on purpose a few times.  Sometimes the forest was just too quiet. 

Now was not one of those times, but the witch had broken her customarily efficient pace several times already over the course of the morning to fuss about with plants.  It was clear that she was harvesting some of them and rejecting others, but Cassandra had not recognized a single one.  Elfroot for poultices was all well and good – everyone who had ever had need of a healer knew that herb – but that was as far as her knowledge went. 

“I hadn’t taken you for the sort that liked flowers,” she said as Morrigan knelt down to yet another plant with her stone herbalist’s knife. 

The witch didn’t look up, but Cassandra could  _hear_ her rolling her eyes.  “I do like flowers.   _Useful_ ones.  ‘Tis chamomile, and I am not gathering it for its aesthetic  appeal.  It goes into the tea I make that you like so much, so perhaps I should say the same to you?” 

Well, fair enough.  “What of the others?” she asked, trying to sound more curious than suspicious. 

“Comfrey, betony, and wormwood.  It has been too wet, and my supply of dried herbs mildewed.”  Morrigan rolled back on her heels and rose to her feet, tucking the bundle of chamomile blossoms into a pouch in her linen sling.  “I prefer to have them at hand before they are needed, rather than search for them afterward, if that is agreeable to you,” she added somewhat acidly, glaring.  Cassandra still had not quite gotten used to the woman’s vivid yellow eyes, but she would die before she’d admit they unsettled her… and she’d die several times over before she would admit that she found them oddly beautiful. 

“Do as you will, mage… you’ll do that anyway,” Cassandra retorted, voice dry.  A flash of impulse caught her by surprise, and before she had completely acknowledged it, she was saying, “If you’ll teach me, however, I can save you some trouble and both of us, time.” 

If Morrigan had not been suspicious about the line of questioning before, she certainly was now.  “A trumped-up templar asking a mage for instruction; will wonders never cease?” she muttered, hooking her sling full of plant cuttings to the horse’s saddle bags.  Then she looked back to Cassandra piercingly, as if trying to see past her eyes and into her skull for some mockery or other ulterior motive.  “… I suppose.”

 

* * *

 

 

Something had shifted the day Cassandra asked for herbalism instruction.  It was subtle but profound, an easing of one strand of tension even as a new one was starting to form, and it marked the point where apostate and Seeker were no longer enemies under temporary ceasefire, but companions.  That companionship was thorny, to be sure, but so had Morrigan’s been with her party during the Blight. 

It was strange to Morrigan to be traveling with another person, as she had been alone of late even more than she was with her daughter, and stranger still that when she discounted how this all started, it was almost enjoyable.  Cassandra was pragmatic and direct in dealing with day-to-day matters, and for a mercy did not possess the absurdly common human tendency to try to fill the day with chatter for its own sake.  Sometimes Morrigan could almost forget precisely  _what_  Cassandra was. 

Almost. 

“I’ve a question, if I may,” Morrigan opened one evening as she worked to lay the fire. 

Cassandra looked up from her rummaging in her saddlebag, her warm eyes wary.  “What is it?” 

The tentative respect that Morrigan had been developing for the Seeker had led her to an oddly urgent need to reconcile that respect with Cassandra’s service to the Chantry – a point which was normally antithetical to Morrigan’s idea of respectability.  “You…  It is quite clear that you are an independent person, capable of making her own decisions and her own way.” 

Snorting in dry amusement, the other woman went back to her task.  “I am flattered that you think so very highly of me as to acknowledge that I possess basic mental competence.” 

Morrigan glared at her bowed head.  “ ‘Tis not basic when so few people have it.  But be flattered all you like, I suppose; it matters not to me.  What I wish to know is, given that competence, why you cleave to the service of an entity that exists to tell its adherents how to think.  I do not see the appeal for one such as you.”

Cassandra looked up again, eyes hard as chisels in the newborn firelight.  “I am useful specifically because I do not need to be told how to think…. But it is not the Chantry that holds my loyalty, even though it has my service.” 

“What, then?” Morrigan asked, unwontedly bitter.  “The ability to strike at your enemies?” 

Chisels sharpened to knives as Cassandra’s eyes narrowed, but then her expression eased just as suddenly, becoming something weary, almost sad.  “Once, yes.  That is exactly what held me, at the first.  Now, though?  No.  I serve the Divine, herself, because of  _who_  and not what she is.  She is a just woman who would see the world at peace, and I honor her for it.” 

“And what is this ‘peace?’  I hear that word used so often, and it never means the same thing to any two people, because it always revolves around one faction or other ordering the world in its image and quelling dissent.”  Morrigan despised words that invoked some intrinsic value, as if the speaker would claim it for her own even as a thousand others did so as well, all at odds with one another.  What was good, and what was evil, when it was ‘good’ to deny one’s own nature at the bidding of a priest, and it was ‘evil’ to use certain kinds of power, even in beneficence?

“This peace is an end to hostilities,” Cassandra answered, voice low and intense.  “Not through locking up dissenters, but by removing reasons for dissent.  She does not condemn mages for being what they are, as difficult as that may be for you to believe.” 

It was surprising, that was for certain.  Ultimately not very helpful at present, since Morrigan still spent far more energy than she would like avoiding templars whenever she had reason to be near human settlements, but surprising.

“And is that your wish for the world as well, warrior?” Morrigan asked softly. 

Cassandra stared into the flames.  


End file.
